


Makeup

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Hotel Sex, M/M, Makeup, Mildly Dubious Consent, Needles, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It probably says something about Hisoka, that he most prefers to fuck Illumi when the other is wearing his face." Illumi makes use of his Nen ability and Hisoka is very appreciative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Makeup

It probably says something about Hisoka, that he most prefers to fuck Illumi when the other is wearing his face.

He doesn’t worry about the implication. Other people’s considerations have never had an effect on his behavior until now, and he has no intention of changing that now. And it’s not  _quite_  like looking into a mirror; Illumi can change everything else but he can’t change his eyes, can’t shed the last edge of uncanny  _wrong_  that doll-blank stare gives when it’s framed by Hisoka’s own features. Maybe it’s that that Hisoka likes so much, the uncomfortable shiver of instinctive wrong that sets his blood skipping and fast-burning like the fuse to some unknown explosion.

He has his own theory, though no one has ever asked to hear it. Illumi is the only one who might, and he doesn’t care, never protests by so much as a flicker of a blink when Hisoka purrs “Turn into me” against the heavy line of his dark hair. He just reaches for his pocket, slides the long points of his needles free so he can sink one unflinching into the smooth curve of his throat. Hisoka likes that too, would do it himself if it would effect the change he wants, but Illumi’s  _Nen_  only works if it’s his fingers on the needles; they just become ordinary pins under Hisoka’s delicate touch. That’s fun in a different way, but that’s not what Hisoka wants when he asks for this; he wants to see Illumi’s hair curl in on itself, bleed into crimson and twist up against his scalp. When he turns around he’s brought the makeup into it too, has used his  _Nen_  to draw white over his already-pale skin and left prints of assumed color, a star just under his left eye and the teardrop under his right in deliberate mirror of Hisoka’s own preferred designs.

But that’s not the charm. Hisoka purrs but it’s anticipation instead of complete satisfaction, the shudder that ripples through him expectant rather than sated. Illumi blinks at him, the motion mechanical like he’s reminding himself to do it, but his pulse is coming fast when Hisoka touches his wrist, his skin gaining warmth from the change just as his hair gained color.

“Bed,” Hisoka says, a statement rather than suggestion, because Illumi is stepping backwards towards the frame, moving without looking like the room has the familiarity of a bedroom instead of the coldly clinical layout of a hotel room. His knees fall open as he sits, implicit invitation for Hisoka’s hips to fit between them, and he doesn’t try to pull his wrist free, lets his fingers hang loose and unresisting in the other’s hold. His breathing is still even, his gaze still locked unflinchingly forward, but his skin is hot, now, Hisoka can see pink flush rising under the pressure of his fingertips.

“Illumi.” The name slides over his lips with the ease of familiarity, pulls the other’s chin up like it’s on a string. Borrowed cheekbones catch the light into lines of shadow, white-painted lips fall nearly invisible in the direct light. Hisoka folds in, turns the movement into a single graceful arc; Illumi doesn’t care but Hisoka does, he always care more about the performance than the audience. And Illumi is opening his mouth and he even tastes different, bubblegum-sweet with only the faint edge of his usual inhuman metallic flavor. He lets himself be pushed backwards over the bed, lets Hisoka pin his wrist down over his head without offering anything but liquid submission; the angle of his arm drags his shirt up off his hip, bares the slim line of his waist, and this might be narcissism but Hisoka doesn’t care, he can appreciate aesthetics even and especially when they’re his own. He pulls back from Illumi’s mouth, reaches out to drag his fingers across the flat line of bare stomach, and there’s a shudder of reaction, physical response trembling ticklish through Illumi’s put-on skin until it makes its way to his throat and spills out as a groan.

_That_  is what Hisoka likes about Illumi wearing his face.

He doesn’t even attempt to hold back the smile that curves across his lips, that turns the corners of his eyes up into an expression he’s been told is threatening and just feels like pleasure to him. He purrs in wordless encouragement, the vibration rumbling down in his chest until he doesn’t need words, and when he pushes his hand higher Illumi takes a sudden breath and starts to arch up off the bed into the contact. He’s whining, too, just this side of recognizable tone; Hisoka is sure Illumi could do a passable imitation of his voice as easily as his face, but maybe Illumi understands what he wants without Hisoka having to say, because he never so much as attempts to mask the resonance of his own voice when he’s like this.

Hisoka ducks his head in, kisses at the corner of Illumi’s open lips so he can feel the gasp of breath against his painted cheek. The other’s skin tastes like powder, makeup and oil catching at Hisoka’s lips but his reaction is unfeigned, more honest than Illumi ever is even when Hisoka strips him down all the way to his bare skin. If anyone knows about the freedom granted by a mask Hisoka does, and if it takes wearing Hisoka’s face to loosen Illumi’s throat and flush his skin he’s hardly going to complain. He brings a knee up to the bed, presses in against the mattress so he can slide his thigh in between Illumi’s to dig against the erection he knows is there. Illumi whimpers at the pressure but his free hand is closing against Hisoka’s hip, pulling down to urge him closer while he rocks up against the resistance, and Hisoka is grinning, laughter coming as easily to him as moaning is to Illumi.

“You make a good me,” he says, presses in harder so Illumi’s hips are crushed flat to the bed as certainly as his wrist. He tightens his fingers, digs his fingernails in sharp against Illumi’s skin so he scrapes the tender wrist raw and red, but Illumi’s eyes flutter without any of the resistance Hisoka knows he could muster, if he minded. There’s just the weight of his breathing falling against Hisoka’s shoulder, the arch of his hips into the other’s leg, all the languid submission that is Illumi run up against the tense want Hisoka can always feel under his own skin, like Illumi has borrowed his desire as easily as his face.

Hisoka tips his weight back, pulls away from the force of Illumi’s half-rhythmic motions, but he’s replacing his knee with his fingers before Illumi can put voice to a protest. He slips his fingers past the edge of the other’s waistband, down to trace against overheated skin, and Illumi does react, then, groans so low Hisoka is certain he’s flushing warm and red under the cover of the pale makeup across his stolen cheekbones.

“Does it feel any different?” Hisoka asks rhetorically while he curls his fingers around the familiar shape -- it never fails to amuse him, that the needle-conversion is thorough enough as to cover this as much as everything else. He wonders, sometimes, if Illumi ever borrows his skin to jerk off, if he ever makes use of novelty to fuel his fantasies. Hisoka would, but then Hisoka isn’t Illumi, in the end. He’s not even sure Illumi ever  _does_  touch himself without the motivation of a partner to spur him on; maybe it’s that that makes him so responsive when he’s in Hisoka’s body, maybe there is something fundamentally different between them that makes Hisoka light up like the sun upon the least contact and keeps Illumi cold and chill no matter the stimulus.

He’s definitely not cool now, at any rate. Hisoka is barely touching him, is just tightening his grip in expectation for stroking up over the flushed heat of Illumi’s cock, but Illumi isn’t even looking at him, is gazing at the ceiling with his mouth open on the expectation of a moan before Hisoka’s even moved. Hisoka wonders if that’s how he looks, after Illumi has taken the time to really work over each super-sensitive inch of his body, wonders what it might feel like to have so much stimulus if distant warmth is all you’ve ever known.

There’s a twinge of jealousy in him, a desire to know the sensation that would come with such a contrast, and he jerks up too hard with more viciousness than intention to give pleasure. Illumi gasps like he’s waging a war with the air, jerks so hard Hisoka isn’t sure if he’s thrusting up for more or trying to wrench away. He’s not sure Illumi could draw a line between the two anyway and it doesn’t matter; he’s not letting go, isn’t easing off on his hold or the motion either one, even when Illumi’s fingers dig sharp against their hold on his hip. Without claws at his disposal Illumi can’t manage to do more than scrape bruises and a trickle of blood over Hisoka’s skin, but that’s enough to spike the other’s breathing fast and rushed, the sensation more important for the spark of feeling than for the pain or pleasure it brings.

He groans, jerks up once and twice in quick succession, and then he has to let Illumi go or risk actually getting him off, and he doesn’t want that just yet. Illumi drops back to the mattress as soon as Hisoka lets him go, all the tension in his body bleeding dry and leaving him trembling and wide-eyed, staring at Hisoka as his mouth opens on the question he won’t or can’t ask.

“Soon,” Hisoka says anyway. It’s not for Illumi’s benefit as much as his own, giving him the opportunity to taste the promise in the vowels, to feel the way his cock pushes hard against his pants at just the sound of the words. “Turn over.”

It’s a shame to lose the view of Illumi’s night-dark eyes when he lets his grip on Hisoka’s hip go so he can roll over onto his stomach, but it’s better this way, Hisoka can get a better angle on his movements and can thrust in deeper, and there’s some unspoken rule between them that Hisoka doesn’t watch Illumi’s eyes when the other is like this. He’s not sure what he’d see, isn’t sure Illumi himself knows what he’d be showing, and it’s not his goal to lay Illumi bare for his own consideration. He just likes the way he  _sounds_ , the way he screams himself hoarse if Hisoka gets his movements just right, the way he sounds like his sanity itself is giving way under the force of pleasure. Hisoka’s always wanted to feel that himself, chases it whenever he can, but hearing it in someone else’s voice is almost as good as feeling it himself, and it’s  _fun_  to feel so powerful.

Illumi doesn’t try to help as Hisoka tugs the other’s pants off his hips, leaves his skin glowing porcelain-white in the light. He doesn’t bother stripping the other more than is strictly necessary; he has mirrors, he can see himself whenever he wants, and he’s never been any good at patience. His  _Nen_  rises easily to his call, focuses around his fingers to wrap them in a coating of perfect lubrication, and he shoves Illumi’s hip down to the bed, braces him in place with his full weight while he fits his fingers in against the other’s entrance and thrusts forward in one too-quick movement. It’s too much, Hisoka knows without even feeling it himself, but he knows what his body likes and that means in this moment he knows what Illumi likes, knows that he’s going to get a shuddering groan instead of a choked protest before he’s actually heard the muffled resonance spill past Illumi’s lips. He shoves harder, reaching as deep as he can, and Illumi jerks against the mattress, quivers in involuntary response as Hisoka’s fingers press against him. It turns Hisoka’s blood hot, nevermind whether it’s the sympathetic pleasure of watching almost-himself writhe against the bed or just the ordinary satisfaction of pleasing a partner; the cause doesn’t matter, he can feel every thud of his heart in the pulse of blood to his cock and he needs more friction, more sensation. Illumi doesn’t protest when Hisoka pulls his fingers out and away. He does take a breath, shudder on the exhale like he’s bracing himself, and while Hisoka tugs his pants open Illumi reaches up to sink his fingers into the bedsheets, curl his hands into fists in an attempt to steady himself in advance.

It won’t work. Hisoka knows, Illumi must know, but the attempt chokes him anyway, tugs his mouth into a smirk that would probably be alarming if Illumi could see his face, and if Illumi were someone other than who he is. Hisoka braces Illumi down to the bed, drags the other’s body across the sheets so his hips are curved over the edge, and looks down at the white curve of neck in front of him, the sharp glint of the needle buried an inch deep into Illumi’s skin. Hisoka lets his breath go in the shape of a moan, smiles down at Illumi’s borrowed-red hair, and thrusts himself forward in one slow unflinching motion. Illumi drags at the sheets, pulls them loose of the neatly-made bed so they crumple under him, and Hisoka drags at Illumi, pulls him back over the bed so the last inch is as much Illumi coming back as it is Hisoka pushing forward.

“ _Ah_ ,” he says, and “ _Ngh_ ,” Illumi moans, and Hisoka lets one of his hands go, reaches around to replace the friction of his grip against Illumi’s cock. Illumi jerks at the contact, tips his hips forward like he’s thrusting up for more, and Hisoka draws back, snaps his own hips forward hard enough that it rocks Illumi forward into his hand. Illumi makes a raw sound, like he’s not sure if he’s moaning or wailing, and Hisoka moves again, draws Illumi’s reaction louder before he jerks his hand up and the groan turns into a toneless yell. That’s it, that’s what he wants, and when he spreads his legs a little wider and thrusts in again Illumi pushes back against the bed, a futile effort to rock himself back for more even though his breathing is already formed of gasping inhales and half-wailed moans. It’s just more sensation for Hisoka, the sight and the sound and the feel of Illumi all slipping together; he’s falling into incoherence, the distinction between his senses blurring until everything is heat and friction and flavor, until he’s drowning in the input from his body and can’t tell anymore if he’s the one fucking or getting fucked, if it’s his hand or his cock jerking with the burn of too-much friction. Someone is whining, someone is nearly sobbing, trembling so violently both bodies are humming, and Hisoka’s breathing in hard against skin, inhaling heat and sweat and the faint taste of makeup directly into his lungs. Everything is shaking, vibrating into an off-key resonance, and Hisoka is sure, as he is always sure, that this time the pleasure is going to kill him.

There’s pressure, fingers tightening on flushed skin and teeth catching against the back of a pale neck, and Illumi wails, convulses so hard it pulls them apart, breaks Hisoka’s fantastical moment of unity so he knows it’s Illumi who’s jerking around him, it’s Illumi who is starting to come across the cold sheets. It’s the other’s movement that draws everything in Hisoka tight and thrumming in the moment before he tips his head sideways, and gasps a lungful of air, and moans with all the full-throated pleasure he has in him. His vision is candy-colored, the ugly pattern on the bedsheets turning geometrical and beautiful with a lack of focus, and his cheek is pressed in against his own mirrored jawline, sweat catching between them and smearing white together. Everything is humming warm and satisfied, the only time Hisoka ever feels anything like relaxation, and Illumi isn’t fighting the weight of the other pressing him into the bed. Hisoka can make out the rough scrape of the other’s breathing as he starts to pay attention to his hearing again but Illumi has gone mostly-quiet again, still and passive even with his borrowed face. He doesn’t shift when Hisoka pushes up on an elbow, just shuts his eyes and lets the other close his fingers around the head of the needle. Illumi has to put them in but Hisoka can take them out; it’s just undoing, the doing is the hard part.

Hisoka drags at the metal, pulls it smoothly back and out, and Illumi’s features come back into sight, like a haze over Hisoka’s vision is fading and bringing reality back in its wake. His shoulders narrow, his nose curves, the line of his eyebrows darkens and shifts; the red fades out of his hair, the length of it unspooling over his shoulders and covering the bruised teeth marks Hisoka left without thinking.

“There,” Hisoka purrs, like he’s finished a painting, and presses his mouth to Illumi’s forehead before he pulls away. Illumi slides forward on the bed, taking his weight onto the mattress before he moves to straighten his clothes, and Hisoka makes for the bathroom, shedding his shirt and pants as he goes.

He takes his time; there’s no point in doing anything if you don’t enjoy it, and there are few things more enjoyable immediately after sex than the steam of a too-hot shower. It leaves his skin bare of makeup and his hair wet around his shoulders, but he doesn’t take the time to remedy either of these things, doesn’t put anything like clothes back on before he comes back out to the other room. Illumi is right where Hisoka left him, curled into a half-circle across the bed with his hair spread behind him and his gaze unfocused on the far wall. He doesn’t move when Hisoka leans on the edge of the bed, doesn’t pull away like he usually does when the other wraps an arm around his waist and pushes his hair aside to kiss the mark at the back of his neck.

This is part of it, too. They aren’t going to sleep together -- they never sleep together, neither of them is trusting enough for that -- but it’s only after Illumi has borrowed Hisoka’s face that he will let himself be touched with anything approaching affection, only in these designed moments that it is worth even imitating the shape of a more usual relationship. Hisoka doesn’t regret the rarity of this -- it is excess he craves, not a static norm -- but this is something to be appreciated just as much as anything else, the slow shift of Illumi’s breathing under his arm and the faint radiant warmth of his skin under Hisoka’s mouth.

Hisoka doesn’t look to see if Illumi is smiling.  _He_  is smiling, and Illumi is letting him press close against him, and that’s all he’s looking for.


End file.
